


a coastal shelf

by orphan_account



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Multi, good luck to us all, pregnancy fic written by someone who knows nothing about pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-06 07:39:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16828129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: At first, she flatly refuses to believe the evidence of her own eyes. She's spent almost two centuries dodging this particular bullet, surely it can't have hit her now. But there it is; it's two hours past the witching hour, she's standing over a brewing pot of somewhat inexpertly prepared potion and the silver spoon she'd placed in the centre is turning clockwise indicating that, yes, her worst fears are confirmed and yes, there's a bastard growing in her belly.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter of this was a little ficlet inspired by a tumblr prompt but after I posted it I got quite a few requests for a sequel, as well as a lot of requests for pregnant Zelda in general. I've never written any kind of baby fic before so I was apprehensive about doing so but I'm too much of a people pleaser to not give the people what they want. Liberal artistic licence has been taken with all kinds of biology but consider it my own biological rules for witch pregnancy.  
> Hope you enjoy!

> _They fuck you up, your mum and dad._
> 
> _They may not mean to, but they do._
> 
> _They fill you with the faults they had_
> 
> _And add some extra, just for you._
> 
> __
> 
> _But they were fucked up in their turn_
> 
> _By fools in old-style hats and coats,_
> 
> _Who half the time were soppy-stern_
> 
> _And half at one another’s throats._
> 
> __
> 
> _Man hands on misery to man._
> 
> _It deepens like a coastal shelf._
> 
> _Get out as early as you can,_
> 
> _And don’t have any kids yourself._
> 
> _\- Philip Larkin, This Be The Verse_

At first, she flatly refuses to believe the evidence of her own eyes. She's spent almost two centuries dodging this particular bullet, surely it can't have hit her now. But there it is; it's two hours past the witching hour, she's standing over a brewing pot of somewhat inexpertly prepared potion (the idea of asking Hilda for help was unthinkable) and the silver spoon she'd placed in the centre is turning clockwise indicating that, yes, her worst fears are confirmed and yes, there's a bastard growing in her belly. Zelda isn't used to being helpless but that's exactly how she feels as she bangs the side of the pot like a faulty television set, hoping against all logic that the spoon will start moving in the other direction. Obviously, she has no such luck. After determinedly scouring the potion pot by hand for far longer than she needs to, relishing the punishing burn of the hot water pouring over her hands, Zelda traipses back up the stairs to her bed and lies awake in the stark solitude of the night.

She thinks it'll be easy to keep it a secret. Zelda had learned discretion and deception alongside writing and arithmetic in the nursery so it's as natural as breathing for her to lie to her family about why she suddenly can't bear the scent of her favourite perfume or why even a bite of toast can send her careening to the bathroom. Unfortunately, Zelda isn't the only one who was provided with a comprehensive education in mendacity. She may be excellent at covering up the truth but her sister is just as skilled in uncovering it and Zelda doesn't fail to notice the suspicious side glances Hilda gives her every time she recoils from the smell of a pot of coffee. But her little sister doesn't seem inclined to bring it up and Zelda certainly isn't going to oblige. Not when she hasn't even wrapped her head around the idea yet herself. And she certainly has no intention of telling him. It would be monumentally embarrassing, running to him cap in hand like a foolish schoolgirl who can't take care of the messes she makes. And she fully intends to take care of this mess all by herself.

As time goes on, though, it becomes harder and harder to do so. Her back starts aching after barely five minutes of movement, her tear ducts seem to activate at the slightest provocation and she can only let her dresses out so many times. In the end, it's something utterly ridiculous that gives her away. The Spellmans are at breakfast, the same as they are every morning, and when Hilda puts down a stack of toast on the table, horror floods through Zelda as she feels tears start to trickle down her cheeks. They fall silently for a moment before she's wracked with a huge, gulping sob and her other family members turn to look at her in astonishment.

‘Auntie Zee? What's the matter?’ Ambrose is sitting nearest to her and pauses with a slice of toast halfway to his mouth to tentatively reach out to pat her arm, like a zookeeper soothing a bear with a thorn in its paw. Another heaving sob overtakes her before she can get any words out but eventually she finds the breath to answer.

‘It's burnt' Zelda manages to stutter out and when her family look at her like she's just grown an extra head, the tears start falling even faster. The other Spellmans all seem frozen to the spot, staring at her in alarm and she can't blame them. It seems like they're all fixed in place for hours, nobody speaking as Zelda continues to weep for absolutely no reason whatsoever, but it's probably less than a minute before she's being piled on by first her niece, then her sister, then her nephew, embraced in six arms that are far more comforting than she'd care to admit.

When Zelda's sobs have faded out and the younger members of the family have mercifully dissipated, Zelda is left alone with her sister and it's unspokenly obvious that her secret is not going to be allowed to remain a secret any longer. Hilda is looking at her with a mixture of concern and disapproval that takes Zelda right back to her schooldays, when her sister would silently judge her for the various bites and bruises that would appear scattered across her body after a late night. At the time, Zelda hadn't cared a jot about Hilda's passive aggressive disparagement, not even bothering to cover her salacious markings. But this, she desperately wishes she could cover up, even just for a little while longer.

‘Zelda... You know I'm trained as well as you are to recognise the symptoms of someone in your _condition_ ' she says the last word pointedly and slowly, the way she talks to Sabrina when their niece is, to quote the girl herself, freaking out. Zelda is about to scoff, deny everything and sweep out of the room in a huff but the tears are still vaguely damp on her cheeks and the idea of escaping into Hilda's comforting familiarity is too tempting to resist. Before she has time to think better of it, she's sunk into Hilda's open arms, another wave of tears washing over her as she lets her sister rock and pet her like she's as small and delicate as the child in her stomach.

‘It'll be fine, Zelda' she only vaguely registers Hilda's words when she closes her eyes, head nestling against her sister's chest as the homey scent of fresh bread, sweet flowers and something else that's just Hilda encloses her. ‘It'll be fine, we'll figure something out. You and me.’


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For what seems like the millionth time in her life, once Zelda has let Hilda in on her secret, she wonders why she'd waited so long. True, her sister’s seemingly boundless joy at the impending arrival clashes horribly with Zelda's own slightly fatalistic attitude to the situation but a little irritation is more than worth what Hilda brings to the table in terms of secret-keeping. She's a whiz with a needle, always has been, and lets Zelda's dresses out better than a professional could, keeping the slightly-protruding stomach completely hidden.

For what seems like the millionth time in her life, once Zelda has let Hilda in on her secret, she wonders why she'd waited so long. True, her sister’s seemingly boundless joy at the impending arrival clashes horribly with Zelda's own slightly fatalistic attitude to the situation but a little irritation is more than worth what Hilda brings to the table in terms of secret-keeping. She's a whiz with a needle, always has been, and lets Zelda's dresses out better than a professional could, keeping the slightly-protruding stomach completely hidden. She learns very quickly what Zelda can stand to eat, what makes her merely nauseous and what makes her run ashen-faced to the bathroom and manages to adjust their menu accordingly without rousing the suspicion of her niece and nephew. And she lies as easily as breathing, making excuse after excuse for Zelda's peculiar behaviour when her elder sister is too rattled, too hormonal or simply too exhausted to do it herself. In fact, she's so good at it that Zelda starts to wonder what Hilda might have been hiding from her all these years under that always-sunny demeanour. 

Nevertheless, even Hilda's surprising skills in the art of deception can't help her forever. At what she thinks must be around the four month mark, there's a shape to her stomach that won't be hidden much longer by cunningly altered clothing or passed off as very late stage puppy fat. Her skin is taut over the curve of her belly and when she stands in front of the mirror and sees how tightly she’s already stretched after only one trimester, she thanks Satan vehemently for her grandmother's fool proof blemish balm. It isn't just that giving her away, though. Witches aren't typically victims of morning sickness and Zelda is no exception; her nausea chooses to overtake her at entirely random times of the day, sending her hurling to the nearest bathroom whenever the whim seems to strike it, whether she's at the dinner table, fast asleep, leading a seminar or, on one particularly memorable occasion, in the middle of the congregation at Black Mass. And then there's what Hilda had far too gleefully described as mood swings. Zelda can't claim to have always had a high level of emotional stability but this is on another plane entirely. She deliberately hasn't been counting but she's fairly sure that not a single day has gone by in the last six weeks where she hasn't found her tear ducts putting her to shame for no earthly reason whatsoever. The burnt toast had been the most egregious example and Zelda has gotten much better at hiding the unexpected floods but still, no matter how good she is as denial, it can only get you so far. Besides, she's been tossing it around in her head for an age and has come to the conclusion that she'd rather her niece and nephew know the truth than think she's completely cracked in the head, as their kid-glove treatment of her recently seems to suggest. That doesn't make telling them the slightest bit easier. 

Briefly, she contemplates sitting them both down and making an announcement to get it over with but it feels too formal, too celebratory. It would feel like she was admitting that this was a big deal and the longer Zelda can put that off the better. So she decides to just drop it into conversation, as casually as one can when you're a 250 year old witch pregnant with her first illegitimate child. 

She tells Ambrose first, thinking it'll be easier. They're working in the morgue, fixing up a body in companionable silence. Zelda truly enjoys these quiet moments with her nephew; although she'd never admit it to him and as selfish as it is, she gives daily thanks to the Dark Lord for his house arrest. Prior to his imprisonment in the family home, Ambrose's visits to Greendale had been rare and fleeting, and Zelda has no idea how she'd have coped without him for the last sixteen years especially. He reminds her of Edward; charismatic but calm, a force of neutrality amongst the extremes to which his relatives are prone. That's exemplified by the way he carries out his duties in the funeral home. Hilda's jovial chatter while they're working gets old quite quickly and when Sabrina deigns to help, her Socratic questioning wears Zelda down after a while. But Ambrose is knowledgeable, efficient and about as fond of unnecessary, inane gabbling as she is. The only issue is that this makes inserting her news into the middle of a conversation a little tricky. 

‘Ambrose...’ she begins, without a clear idea of where she's headed with the rest of the sentence. He’s looking at her expectantly, airbrush in one hand, and she looks back down at the body rather than meet those endearing eyes. Just do it, for Satan's sake, you're a grown woman. ‘Ambrose, what would you say if I told you there was going to be another child in this house?’ 

‘You mean... is Sabrina...?’ he leaves his question hanging in the air and Zelda raises her eyebrows as far as they'll go. 

‘You'd better hope for her sake she's not. No...’ she pulls the material of her jacket to one side to rest a hand on the beginnings of the bump and ignores the way it makes her feel a little better. ‘You'll likely have another cousin by the time next Halloween comes round.’ 

She sounds as if she's discussing nothing more pressing than next week's weather forecast and to give Ambrose credit, he seems to be the exact opposite of his already-birthed cousin when it comes to keeping his emotions in check. 

‘Ah, well, that. Explains rather a lot, now I come to think of it. Does Aunt Hilda know?’ He sounds more baffled than shocked, something with which Zelda can wholeheartedly empathise. Satan knows, she's still confused herself. 

‘Apparently your Aunt Hilda can sniff out a gestating baby like a bloodhound can an unlucky fox. She's known for weeks’ Zelda scoffs, daring to meet her nephew's eyes for the first time since the secret had come tumbling out of her mouth. He looks a little concerned, understandably so, but not horrified and that's more reassuring than Zelda could have imagined. If Ambrose doesn't find the idea of her having a child terrifying or ridiculous, maybe the poor thing has a chance after all. 

‘And... Father Blackwood?’ Ambrose's voice is as faux-casual as her own had been moments earlier and when Zelda casts a sharp glance over him, he's fixed his eyes on the corpse just as she had. 

‘What makes you think-' 

‘Basic powers of perception, Aunt Zee.’ Well, that's fair enough, she supposes. Zelda can be the epitome of discretion when she wants to be but she can't deny that in the few months before she'd realised, she hadn't really wanted to be, too caught up in intrigue and exhilaration to prioritise any kind of secrecy. How things have changed. 

‘Unless I'm wrong? Perhaps you've followed in your siblings’ footsteps and there's a child of Light growing in there?’ He's laughing at her as he ever-so-gently prods at her stomach and although Zelda responds by rolling her eyes, she can't deny feeling a monumental sense of relief. 

‘Don't be disgusting, Ambrose’ she says sharply and they discuss nothing more than corpse beautification the rest of the morning, the burden on Zelda's shoulders feeling ten times lighter than it had at breakfast time. 

Somehow, she doesn't think Sabrina is going to be quite so easy. And she's right. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not a sentiment Zelda ever expresses out loud but the family breakfasts in the Spellman household are a tradition she would happily fight tooth and nail to keep intact. She might retreat back behind whichever newspaper looks the most interesting but even when she isn’t an active participant in the conversations, listening to Ambrose and Sabrina playfully squabble amongst the warmth and scent of Hilda’s cooking is a pleasure she doesn’t take for granted. Even recently, when partaking in the aforementioned cooking is risky business and the creature in her stomach has given her a sleepless night, Zelda never forgoes taking her place at the head of the breakfast table in the morning and really doesn’t appreciate it when the other members of her family decide to do so.

It’s not a sentiment Zelda ever expresses out loud but the family breakfasts in the Spellman household are a tradition she would happily fight tooth and nail to keep intact. She might retreat back behind whichever newspaper looks the most interesting but even when she isn’t an active participant in the conversations, listening to Ambrose and Sabrina playfully squabble amongst the warmth and scent of Hilda’s cooking is a pleasure she doesn’t take for granted. Even recently, when partaking in the aforementioned cooking is risky business and the creature in her stomach has given her a sleepless night, Zelda never forgoes taking her place at the head of the breakfast table in the morning and really doesn’t appreciate it when the other members of her family decide to do so. Today, though, she’s willing to make an exception; Sabrina is still in bed, suffering from the after effects of one of the Unseen Academy’s rather special parties. It’s an ailment Zelda remembers agonisingly well from her own schooldays so she doesn’t even comment on her niece’s absence from the table, knowing that doing so would only prompt a (well-deserved) jibe from Hilda about the dangers of hypocrisy. Instead, she waits until the morning is half over before assembling a tray of orange juice, Hilda’s leftover muffins and toast (the extent of Zelda’s culinary abilities) and climbing the stairs to Sabrina’s room. The muffled ‘come in’ in response to her knock sounds pained and Zelda smiles fondly to herself at the memories associated with the kind of headache Sabrina is currently experiencing. 

When she opens the door, the room is still cloaked in darkness despite the hour and Zelda has to very carefully make her way through the debris of discarded outfits, an array of spell books and the general detritus of teenage girldom to make sure she doesn’t send the tray in her arms flying into the air. Tutting more out of habit than genuine annoyance, she twitches the curtains open just a crack, casting light on the bed and eliciting a pained groan from the form beneath the blankets.

‘If you’re trying to murder me, there are more humane methods!’ says the scowling face that emerges from its cocoon, and Zelda rolls her eyes as she bangs the breakfast tray down on the mercifully clutter-free bedside table. 

‘Sabrina, if I wanted to murder you, you would have been dead before you even heard the door opening’ she pats the lump that must be Sabrina’s legs and her niece obediently swings them to the side, making space for Zelda to perch in the gap they leave. 

‘Very comforting, Auntie Zee’ the teenager grumbles, but she manages to sit up and swipe a slice of toast from the tray and for once, Zelda doesn’t make a sharp remark about crumbs. 

‘I assume, given your current state, that you enjoyed yourself last night?’

‘It was _wild_ , Aunt Zee, you have no idea’ actually, Zelda has a pretty good idea but that isn’t something she needs to share with Sabrina. ‘Very different from Baxter High parties, let me tell you’

‘Well, I should hope so’ Zelda scoffs. Baxter High parties, indeed. ‘But you had fun?’

‘A lot of fun’ Sabrina smiles a smile that Zelda knows very well, mostly from countless occasions looking in her own bedroom mirror after a night at the Academy and for a moment the reminder of her young self in her niece’s face is almost painful.

‘Perhaps a little too much fun?’ she says slyly, tickled by the way the girl turns bright pink almost instantly. ‘Not that I’m passing judgement, I just hope you were being responsible.’ 

‘Aunt Zelda! Not that I’m open to talking about this, but yes. I was responsible.’ Sabrina buries her reddened face in her arm, obviously mortified as only a teenage girl can be.

‘Well and good. Satan knows I can’t cope with having two babies in this house’ she’d say it just slipped out but that isn’t really true. It’s convenient to be able to pretend that it did, to blame the mess of hormones and worries that currently make up the inside of her head when Hilda inevitably chastises her for not handling Sabrina gently enough. But if she’s perfectly honest with herself, Zelda just wanted it to be over and done with. By the look on her niece’s face as she slowly raises her head back up to stare at Zelda with an expression akin to a lamb who’s just spotted the bloody cleaver in the farmer’s hand, this may not have been exactly the right move. 

‘Two babies? I don’t understand, we don’t even have one baby’ 

‘No, well. By the next winter solstice, we will’ she’s trying her best to sound matter of fact, but she knows the Warning Signs of an Impending Sabrina Meltdown as well as she knows the back of her own dainty hands and there is most definitely one brewing. ‘Or I will, to be scrupulously accurate.’ 

‘But... how?!’ her heart-rate has started to elevate but Zelda just responds by raising an ironic eyebrow. 

‘If I really need to tell you how, Sabrina, perhaps you’re not ready to be attending these sorts of parties.’

‘No, I know _how_ but. How? You don’t have a...’ 

‘Husband? How archaic of you, niece. What would your mortal empowerment group say?’ again, she sounds far cooler and more collected than she feels. 

‘You know what I mean, Aunt Zee. You don’t have a... person’ Sabrina settles on lamely and if it’s gone relatively smoothly so far, Zelda knows this is where the waters are going to get choppy.

‘If that’s your roundabout way of asking who the child’s father is, just ask. The baby is Father Blackwood’s’ just act as though it’s inconsequential, and maybe it will be, that’s her strategy. It doesn’t seem to have worked, though, when Sabrina sits up in such umbrage that she sends the remainder of her toast flying across the room.

‘ _Father Blackwood?!_ ’ 

‘That’s what I said, Sabrina.’ She’s aiming for officiousness, hoping to shut the conversation down as quickly as possible but Zelda is fairly sure she just sounds sardonic. 

‘You mean my aunt is having a baby with the man who spent most of the end of last year trying to get me to sell my soul to the Dark Lord?’

‘If you recall correctly, Sabrina, your soul had already been sold by your own father long before the High Priest had any designs on it so before you begin casting aspersions on other people’s actions, perhaps you might try and remember that this family is not exactly standing high in the morality stakes. Father Blackwood was doing his job; I appreciate that you dislike him and I appreciate that our religion is nothing more than a _joke_ to you but while you are in this house, I would appreciate it if you could at the very least show him some degree of respect as your High Priest!’ her face is flushed when she finishes speaking, and not just from the energy she expended raising her voice. More often than she likes in the last few months, Zelda has found herself expressing sentiments she hadn’t even known she had until they’ve already fallen out of her mouth. They’re almost always unwelcome, none more so than this one and unsurprisingly, the appalled look on Sabrina’s face indicates that she thinks so too. They sit in silence for a few moments that feel like lifetimes and Zelda is possessed by the wholehearted wish that she could still smoke. 

‘Do you always call him Father Blackwood?’ her niece says eventually, sulkily but with a slight glimmer in those eyes that never fails to make Zelda smile a little too. ‘Like, even when you’re-’

‘Sabrina, don’t be coarse’ she interrupts, lightly tapping her niece on the knee in a reproving manner ‘And obviously not.’ They share a smile, and Zelda’s heart lifts just a little from where it had sunk to the bottom of her stomach. Sabrina sits all the way up and, to her aunt’s surprise and gratification, launches herself forward towards Zelda, burying her face in the collar of her dress.

‘Our religion isn’t a joke to me, Aunt Zee’ Sabrina’s voice is muffled by Zelda’s shoulder but her words come through clearly enough and Zelda sighs, running one hand over the silky blonde head. 

‘I know, sweetheart. This hellraiser of a child is meddling with my verbal filter, I think.’

‘Auntie, you’ve never had a verbal filter’ Zelda laughs at that, stroking a stray strand of hair back behind her niece’s ear. If she had her way, she would gladly stay here on the end of Sabrina’s bed all day, warm and cosy in the glow of her niece’s affection. But as the last half year has proved, things in general don’t have a habit of going Zelda’s way. After savouring the embrace for a few more moments, Zelda gently disentangles herself from Sabrina, pausing only to bestow a kiss on the top of her head before getting up again. 

‘When you’re feeling ready to come downstairs, your Aunt Hilda has a herbal tea she swears works wonders on this particular kind of headache’ she says, smoothing the blanket at the edge of the bed back down where her body had wrinkled it. 

‘Thanks, Aunt Zee. I really am happy for you’ Sabrina’s smile is so bright that Zelda has no choice but to match it with one of her own but as she progresses back down the stairs, she really isn’t sure that she echoes the feeling that had come with it. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not having to come up with excuses for her frequent sprints to the nearest bathroom, being able to complain loudly and freely about how much she’s longing for a cigarette, openly devouring an entire batch of Hilda’s raspberry muffins without a single question; all definite upsides to not having to hide her condition. The unfortunate fact is, though, that all these advantages bring one very distinct downside. Zelda is no longer able to pretend that this isn’t happening.

As reluctant as she’d been to come clean to her niece and nephew, the advantages of doing so become clear very quickly. Zelda doesn’t have to pretend that she’s functioning normally while her entire body is, in Sabrina’s words, freaking out. Not having to come up with excuses for her frequent sprints to the nearest bathroom, being able to complain loudly and freely about how much she’s longing for a cigarette, openly devouring an entire batch of Hilda’s raspberry muffins without a single question; all definite upsides to not having to hide her condition. The unfortunate fact is, though, that all these advantages bring one very distinct downside. Zelda is no longer able to pretend that this isn’t happening. When only Hilda had known, Zelda had mostly managed to avoid questions about what her plans were, but there’s no escaping from the incessant quizzing and cross-examining now. Her life seems to be an endless cycle of:

‘When did it happen?’

‘When are you going to tell him?’

‘Are we keeping the baby?’

‘Are you going to keep teaching?’

‘Do you know what you’re going to call it?’

‘Do we know if it’s a girl yet?’

And the only answer she cares to give to all these questions is a constant refrain of ‘I don’t know’. It’s the only response she ever makes but that doesn’t seem to put her family off in the slightest. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take long for Zelda to snap. Equally unsurprisingly, it’s Hilda who’s on the receiving end. They’re sitting in the parlour in silence, Hilda knitting something that looks suspiciously baby-sized, Zelda reading and attempting to ignore the cartwheels being turned in her stomach by something definitely baby-sized, when Hilda tentatively breaks through the quiet.

‘Have you told the father?’ Zelda looks up from her book into her sister’s eyes, already irritated. 

‘Why must you persist in asking questions to which you already know the answer?’ she shifts in her chair, spoiling for a fight. 

‘Well alright, different question. Why haven’t you told the father?’

Hilda has never liked Faustus Blackwood. It’s been a point of contention between the sisters for as long as Zelda can remember but even more so now Hilda is no longer a member of the Church of Night and thus no longer obligated to show the man even the cursory respect. She doesn’t even say his name, Zelda notes, although she can’t say she minds that. She knows her sister well enough to know that being vague is Hilda’s way of avoiding an argument and Zelda is equally eager to not rehash the same old squabble they’ve had a hundred times before. As much as Hilda tires of Zelda’s usual officiousness, she hates seeing her sister morph into the role of biddable supplicant when she’s in the presence of the High Priest. Her usual response to this is to make grumbled allusions to something called Invasion of the Bodysnatchers which Zelda assumes from context is not exactly complimentary. And Zelda gets so mortified by her little sister’s barely concealed disdain, something Hilda seems to reserve solely for the man in question, that it’s ended up in a trip to the Cain Pit for the younger Spellman sister on more than one occasion. It’s no wonder that she’s been trying to avoid having this conversation for as long as possible. 

‘I thought perhaps I wouldn’t have to. I could keep it between us, maybe go away somewhere for the last few months’ it had been a half-baked plan even in her head and Zelda knows when she says it out loud that it sounds utterly pathetic, a sentiment that’s echoed in Hilda’s disbelieving expression.

‘Zelda, that’s impossible. You’re going to be able to balance a tea tray on that stomach before long. And when you suddenly flatten out again after twelve months? It would take an even stupider man than that to not cotton on.’

‘I didn’t say I’d worked out all the details’ she huffs defensively, but she knows that Hilda is absolutely right and she doesn’t have the energy to justify herself.

‘You know I don’t think that man deserves anything from you but if he’s going to find out sooner or later, you should just tell him’ Zelda rolls her eyes, irritably tapping her nails on the arm of the chair. 

‘What you think is of very little consequence. I’ll do this on my own schedule and I’d thank you not to interfere’ she feels a little guilty the moment the words leave her mouth; Hilda’s questions might be irritating but she’s been all help and no hindrance in the last few weeks. 

‘Well, then you might want to give your baby a copy of that schedule because it’s going to give you away far sooner than I will’ Hilda snaps, flinging her knitting to the side and, in an unusual move, storming out. Zelda can hear her clattering around the kitchen, presumably engaging in her usual post-argument baking session. When Hilda is a little miffed, it’s usually cupcakes, cookies, something sweet and simple. When she’s genuinely hurt, it might be an apple charlotte or black forest gateau, a little more complex. And when she’s seriously angry, Hilda’s been known to knock out huge three-tiered wedding cakes or gingerbread houses decorated to within an inch of their lives. Edward used to provoke their little sister deliberately, Zelda remembers, in order to scare up some sweet treats- as though Hilda wouldn’t have gladly slaved over an oven for hours if he’d have just asked her. Zelda herself might be eating for two but that isn’t why she’d picked a mostly unnecessary fight. She’s just annoyed that her sister is undeniably in the right. There’s no way she’s going to get through this pregnancy without telling Faustus Blackwood that he’s partially responsible for it and she knows it, but she really hadn’t appreciated the reminder. 

Zelda doesn’t care to dwell on it but Hilda’s words stay with her over the next few days. She might be dreading this next step but she can’t realistically pretend this isn’t happening any longer. Still, she’s dreading it so much that asks her sister for a flask of Hilda’s special calming tea to take to the Academy with her, the stuff she usually dismisses as herbal hedge witch nonsense. It’s not as effective as a cigarette or a real drink would be and maybe it’s just the power of suggestion, but Zelda actually does feel a little better when she knocks on the High Priest’s office door. Her heart is still hammering like a terrified rabbit’s but she’s fairly certain that she’s going to neither faint nor cry, something that (to her consternation) in her current situation isn’t always a given. 

When she slips inside, he looks justifiably surprised to see her. It’s not that she’s been avoiding him, not exactly. Doing so would be next to impossible, would require giving up teaching and, Satan forfend, going to Mass, neither of which she’s prepared to do because of her own foolish mistakes. But ever since Zelda had realised there was a child growing in her belly, she’s managed to prevent herself from being alone with the man who put it there for more than a few minutes. 

This isn’t something she’s entirely happy about; Zelda has always appreciated their... special relationship, relished having the ear of the High Priest as much as she enjoyed the physical pleasure that’s now resulted in her life going completely off the rails. Indulging herself any further in that regard, however, would have been astronomically idiotic. Her ability to cope under pressure is a great source of pride with Zelda but initially she’d been terrified that she would end up just blurting her secret out to him, without the careful consideration required to shape her words into those she knows he would respond to best. And as time had progressed, her body had progressed with it; she might be able to hide the protrusion of her stomach behind skilful tailoring but when uncovered, it’s absolutely unmistakable. History has proved that the vast majority of her one-on-one meetings with Faustus Blackwood have either begun or ended with beautifully made dresses crumpled on the floor or hastily hiked up around her waist, so avoiding these meetings altogether had seemed like far the safest option. They’d already been waning by the time she’d discovered the consequences of their indiscretions. Apparently fucking Zelda behind his late wife’s back was fine but he seemed to have decided that fucking her while grieving wasn’t quite appropriate. Zelda couldn’t personally see the difference but now she’s endlessly grateful for Faustus’s discovery of something approaching a moral compass. It’s made it so much easier to keep her secret from him and she’s praying as hard as she can that it’s going to make spilling it a little easier too. 

The man in question is sitting at his desk and offers her an amiable smile when she pushes the door firmly shut but when she doesn’t return it (she isn’t entirely sure but Zelda thinks that her face might have actually gone numb), his characteristic blankness takes possession of his face again.

‘Zelda, to what do I owe this visit? Is there a problem?’ That’s an understatement if she’s ever heard one. 

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.’ The narrowing of Faustus’s eyes is doing absolutely nothing for her nerves and when he gestures to the chair opposite him, Zelda shakes her head. She can’t take a seat as though this is a meeting between colleagues, or lovers, or Satan forbid, friends. Not when there’s the distinct possibility that he’s going to react as though the apocalypse itself is upon them. Instead, she rests her hands on the flat of his desk, leaning to take a little weight off her aching feet. She can feel her already-wavering confidence draining out from the bottom of her feet and knows that if she doesn’t do it now, she never will. 

‘I appreciate this may be unwelcome news- and believe me, it was not precisely welcome to me either- but the fact is that the Dark Lord has apparently seen fit to bless our... _unions_ with fruit’ whatever effect Hilda's tea had had on her has most decidedly subsided; her legs are shaking to such an extent that if she weren't leaning against a solid hunk of wood, Zelda is fairly sure they'd have folded in under her. She doesn’t frighten easily, by any stretch of the imagination but these circumstances are somewhat exceptional. The man is so unpredictable that she hasn’t even been able to properly prepare herself; no idea if she was about to be met with bare-faced disgust, righteous fury or ice-cold disdain. She’d prefer the latter, she thinks, it’s closest to what she’s been feeling for herself. What comes, though, is..... nothing. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, Zelda can’t actually tell if he’s taken a breath or not in the seconds since she spoke. 

‘I’m carrying your child’ she adds curtly, just in case he hadn’t quite got the message. The sound of her voice again seems to kick Faustus into gear and he rises from his chair. Zelda can’t keep herself from flinching just a little as he crosses around his desk and the briefest twitch of his eyebrows lets her know that he noticed. Really, it’s far easier to appear calm around someone who isn’t incredibly well-acquainted with the physical responses of one’s body.

‘You’re certain?’ his voice is low and urgent, and Zelda only hopes her own won’t waver.

‘Unmistakably so.’ It doesn’t, praise Satan, but only by luck; she’s as nervous as a calf in a slaughterhouse. 

‘And you’re sure the child is mine?’

‘Equally unmistakably’ she genuinely wishes she wasn’t, that she’d had the foresight to slot another lover in to at least muddy the waters a little so she wouldn’t have to have this conversation ‘The pregnancy is approaching four months in duration, I believe.’ 

He doesn’t respond to that; not verbally, anyway. Instead, his hand skates over the curve of her stomach and Zelda is caught between twin feelings of fear and relief. He hasn’t sentenced her to burn in the Pit (and she knows full well that he would in a heartbeat if it suited him) or hit her with a nasty hex, both of which she’d thought were distinct possibilities before coming in here. But now there’s no aspect of her life in which she can pretend that nothing has changed and Zelda finds that just as terrifying as the thought of the Dark Lord’s displeasure. She had thought that the worst would be over now, that she’d see the way ahead more clearly but all she sees is a vast stretch of empty possibility and it fills her with fear from head to toe. So, as surprised as she is when Faustus brings his mouth down to hers for a frenzied kiss, Zelda can do nothing but respond in kind. She’s always been good at sinking into this, using it to escape reality for a little while- why should now be any different?

It’s late when Zelda finally stumbles back home but the lamps are still lit in the Spellman house. Hilda is at her usual place around the kitchen table and although neither of them articulates it, it’s very clear that she’s been waiting up. They exchange greetings and fall into silence as Zelda stands over the boiling kettle, kicking off her shoes to try and relieve the ache in her feet which is now matched by an ache in her thighs. Typically though, Hilda doesn’t allow them to stay quiet for very long.

‘Well, did you do it?’ Zelda just nods her affirmation, hoping in vain that her sister is going to leave it there and just let her go to bed. ‘And how did it go, for Satan’s sake?’

‘Hmm? Oh, fine.’ She says absently.

‘Fine as in you've narrowly managed to avoid being burnt up by hellfire or fine as in you're going to be the new Lady Blackwood?’

‘Really, Hilda, must you always be so melodramatic? No wonder we have two junior Sarah Bernhardts running around the house making a mountain out of every molehill’ she didn’t expect the deflection to be successful and from the look on Hilda’s face, it emphatically was not. ‘Somewhere between those two extremes, sister, as I think you could have guessed.’ 

Hilda seems to realise that prying isn’t going to get her very far tonight and she’s slunk off to her shabby little bedroom before the kettle starts whistling. Zelda will elaborate in the morning, possibly, but for now all she cares to think about is the blissful oblivion sleep will bring her; she can slip in between her cool silken sheets and hopefully not have to think about all this for at least an hour before the permanently-cartwheeling child wakes her up again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are here for the hets, I've also written the office scene from Blackwood's perspective to help me get a handle on it; if anyone is interested, I can polish it up and post it separately?


End file.
